The Word Crystallized In A Rhyme

Reflections on John Donne

"Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse."
- John Donne, “The Tripple Fool”

The word crystallized in a rhyme is indeed
A type of a concord between different deeds,
The rhythm renders music which will be intact
Divided by even numbers of tacts.
The role of the key is harder to grasp -
For that you would need to look in the glass
Of your inspirations, or who is above,
Or maybe below, your secret enclave.
Combined with your Muse, your heart and your beat,
The verse does amuse, recharges and treats
Your word like a song, forever alive,
In which to believe you don’t need to lie
From top of your feelings – you wouldn’t deny
The measure of wheeling that renders the rhyme
New ease in the dealing with word so dry
And tattered that peeling it wouldn’t survive,
But а touch of new coat of polish revives
And doesn’t agree that he loses who tries
To look for new order in tuning the keys
To steаl it from neighbor, or be its jockey*
To stretch and to sing another’s heartbeat
May be inspiration to measure the feat
Of visible maker to match with his Muse
And so to take its daily obtuse
And overstretched bucket to fill it with ore
Derived from the farthest visible shore
To find new agenda and meaning of word
To use it again like a fearful sword
To cut and unpeel,
To dare and feel…

*DJ disc-jockey

- Anna L. Zontova
Moscow, February 16, 2005

* * *
Закована в латы стиха моя быль
Без них превратилась, конечно б, не в пыль,
И даже не в клекот орла – беспредел...

THE ECHO CATCHER

Она не знает горестных смятений,
Пред ней все песнопения равны,
Она вкушает их пыльцу без промедленья,
С себя снимая новый круг вины

За то, что их размером зарядившись,
Она без сожаленья отдает
Им той любви пример, что в ритме отразившись
Их размышлений, новый свет прольет

На все бесстрастные рабочих заявленья
О том, как мой цветочек путь во мгле нашел
Затем, чтоб посвятив себя их бурному цветенью
В земле преданий сады снова обошел

Не в поисках потока вдохновенья,
Земли чудес и таинств бытия,
А заслужить надежду исцеленья
От глухоты и выпить из ручья

Закона совершенства... - Где обитель,
Открыв свои сомкнутые врата
Лишь тем, кто не прервал весеннее соитье
Трудов и веры, не закрыл уста

Не только он поверившей в их Музе
Рожденный бит и млечные слова,
Но и свои ослабил с песнопеньем узы,
Раскинув сети в том поселке, где царит Молва...
- Анна Зонтова 21.02.05


THE TRIPPLE FOOL BY JOHN DONNE
circa 1624

I am two fools, I know,
      For loving, and for saying so
          In whining poetry;
But where's that wiseman, that would not be I,
          If she would not deny?
Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes
    Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,

I thought, if I could draw my pains
    Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

      But when I have done so,
      Some man, his art and voice to show,
          Doth set and sing my pain;
And, by delighting many, frees again
          Grief, which verse did restrain. (!)
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
    But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.

Both are increased by such songs,
    For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three;
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.